Getaway
by livjo33
Summary: While Logan is staying in the woods, a man stumbles across his campsite. Will an unlikely friendship blossom from a chance encounter? A collection of one-shots after Logan and Dean meet. NO SLASH. The title is still a work in progress!
1. Chapter 1

**X-Men/Supernatural Crossover**

 **AN: My first crossover! So, my friend just got me started watching X-Men and I was immediately hooked. I really liked Logan's character (I mean, Hugh Jackman? Who couldn't?) and wondered what would happen if him and Dean happened to meet up one day. So this my attempt at writing that meeting! I just ask you to keep in mind that I'm almost 100% positive that the timelines don't match up correctly between the show and the movies, but hopefully you won't mind too much. This takes place after Logan loses him memory and before he becomes a X-Man for the X-Men movies, and just a few months after Sam leaves for college for Supernatural. Sorry for the long note but I wanted to cover my bases…Thanks for reading and please tell me what you think at the end!**

Logan stirred up his fire once again. It was nearing the middle of September and cold breezes were starting to gust through every once and a while. Winter was drawing nearer, and if he got unlucky, the first snowfall probably was not too far around the corner.

He didn't know exactly where he was at the moment. His wanderings were usually restricted to Canada, but lately, he'd been spending quite a bit of time going south. There was a good chance he was in the US by now. It didn't really matter, though. Not like he was staying more than a few days anyways. He'd get back to Canada.

A rustling came from the trees behind him. His enhanced senses alerted him that he was no longer alone. Standing, he allowed his claws to slide slowly from his hands. The pain that always came with them barely even registered. He smelled the air. The wind carried the scent of a young man and quite a bit of blood. Something wasn't right.

Finally, the man he smelled stumbled into Logan's campsite. Putting up a hand, he leaned heavily against the nearest tree and looked directly at Logan, as if he was expecting to see him. He tried to speak but he was so winded it was impossible. Logan decided to break the silence instead.

"Who ya runnin' from, bub?"

The man had gotten his breath back, or at least enough to speak, and straightened slightly. "Can I borrow your fire?"

Logan prided himself in not being easily surprised, but he had to admit, he never could have guessed that'd be the first thing the man would say. Before he had time to figure out an answer, the man pushed himself off the tree and quickly limped to the small fire. Without hesitation, he leaned down, grabbed one of the branches that wasn't completely on fire, and pulled it from the blaze. Then, he turned around to face Logan again.

 _Great job, Logan,_ he said to himself. _You just let a crazy man walk into your camp, pick up a flaming stick, and you can't even take him down because if he drops that stick the whole forest is gonna go up._

"Just hang on there, bub," Logan held up one of his hands which still had his claws out (he found it odd that the man hadn't even acknowledged them yet). "What the hell – "

"Listen," the man snapped (even though as he looked at him, the man was really barely more than a boy). "I don't have time to give you the speech, so just stay behind me and try not to get yourself killed."

Logan snorted. "You've got no idea who you're dealing with, kid."

The man glared at him for the kid comment, but the glare lost some of its heat when he seemed to see Logan's claws for the first time as they glinted in the moonlight. "What the? What – " The kid cut himself off as more leaves rustled around them. Instantly he fell into a position that Logan recognized. It was a fighting stance, one used to protect oneself. It put Logan on high-alert.

Figuring that asking would reap the same results as before, he simply relaxed himself into his own fighting form that almost mirrored the kid's. Silently, the men stood, each on edge, one not knowing why.

After a few minutes, Logan was starting to feel ridiculous. This guy was probably a class-A nutjob and he'd just spent five minutes of his life indulging in his psycho fantasy. People wondered why he didn't come to the US.

Just as he was about to put his claws away and demand the guy to get lost, he felt something sharp slice through his side. He grunted slightly and glanced down at his side in time to see four gaping wounds stitch themselves back together.

"Damn," the young man muttered. He frowned, seeming to be thinking about something. Then, he shoved the still-flaming stick at Logan. "Here, light up anything that moves." Logan sheathed his claws as he grasped the torch. With that, the kid bent down and started tracing something on the ground.

So maybe the kid was crazy, but there really was something else out in the woods so what was the harm with going along with him for now? "What are ya doin'?"

"Protection symbols," the kid gritted out. Logan refocused on the blood that the kid was covered in. It was from more than one person, that much he could tell. But how much of it, if any, was the kid's was impossible to know. He hoped that the stranger wasn't too badly injured, that would mean having to find some way to help him.

The kid went to straighten up again, but was knocked over with a grunt when something rammed into him. Acting on instinct, Logan thrust the flaming stick at the monstrosity. He only caught a glimpse of whatever it was before it took off again, but he knew for certain whatever it was wasn't human. And he was pretty sure it wasn't a mutant either.

Picking himself up off the ground, the kid hauled himself to the other side of the camp and resumed drawing in the ground. He did this three other times without any other interruptions. Logan watched him the entire time. Finally, the kid collapsed next to the fire. He sat opposite of the young man and watched him with distrust, and some curiosity. "What was that thing?"

Slowly, the kid dragged his gaze to meet Logan's. It was the first time Logan had gotten a good look at him. He was young, probably early twenties, but he already knew that. Striking features probably made him popular with the ladies. His eyes, however, are what Logan noticed the most. They looked old, haunted, like they had seen too for any one man to handle. Logan recognized those eyes, he saw them in the mirror all the time. Unlike Logan's tortured eyes, though, the kid's still seemed to hold a spark of humor, as though he knew he still had something worth fighting for. He probably did.

"It was, uh," the kid rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted, and Logan felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to pursue it. "A wendigo." He must have seen the confused look cross Logan's face, because the kid started to explain. "It's old Native American lore. Basically, someone becomes a cannibal because of hard times, gains some speed and strength, is no longer human. They live for a long time and resurface every once in a while to eat more people." Logan felt himself being scrutinized carefully. "Haven't you heard about the disappearances in these woods?"

Logan grunted, "Just passing through."

The kid looked at him for a moment longer, then seemed to accept his explanation. Logan watched as he peeled his blood-coated shirt away from his skin to reveal four slices curling around his abdomen much like the ones Logan had healed from minutes earlier. Studying the wounds for a minute, the kid looked up at Logan. "Wouldn't happen to have a med-kit with you?"

Logan snorted. There was no reason for him to ever carry a med-kit with him. He shook his head. The kid sighed, "Figures."

The trees behind Logan rustled again. He stood quickly, barely refraining from letting his claws slide out again. "Don't worry," the kid said from behind him. He turned to see that the kid hadn't even stood up. "It can't get past those symbols." Hesitantly, Logan sat again, keeping his ears open for signs of another attack.

He watched as the kid ripped the already torn shirt to strips and wind them around his wounds. It occurred to Logan that he probably shouldn't be just sitting there and maybe should be demanding answers. But, the kid seemed content to sit across the fire from a potentially dangerous stranger so why shouldn't he? Besides, it wasn't like the kid could kill him.

It did seem wrong to continue calling him 'the kid' in his mind, though. "What's your name, kid?"

Instantly, the kid seemed guarded. His body tensed and those haunted eyes got hard. Logan could recognize when someone felt cornered, it was usually when they were at their most dangerous, and this kid looked like he could be pretty damn dangerous. He waited to see what the kid would do. In only a matter of seconds, the kid had seemed to make a decision. His body uncoiled slightly and he straightened up as much as his wounds would allow. "Jim," he responded. No last name was offered.

Logan was almost one hundred percent certain that he was lying, but at least he had something to call him now besides 'the kid' so he didn't push the issue. "What the hell happened to ya?" He had a pretty good idea that wendigo thing had something to do with it, but he wanted the full story anyways.

Jim seemed to fold in on himself. "Wasn't paying attention," he muttered. "Freaking thing caught me off guard. Woke up in its cave all strung up. Guess it missed one of my knives and I got away."

The story was short and obviously lacking on details, but it got the point across. Logan found that he wasn't at all surprised that, according to the story, the kid was carrying at least one knife at the moment. Also, he'd gained some respect for Jim. Judging on what he'd seen of the creature so far, the wendigo couldn't be easy to escape. "How'd ya know about the thing anyways?"

Jim shook his head. "Nope. Sorry sweetheart, but this is a give and take relationship. I've let you ask, now it's my turn. What's with the fancy cutlery, man?"

Logan was a little shocked at Jim's audacity, but it was also refreshing. The fact that Jim wasn't afraid of his claws, or at least didn't show it, made him like the kid a little more. "Don't know," he growled out. Even though Jim might not have been afraid of him, he apparently knew when not to push. The subject dropped.

The only sound in the campfire for almost ten minutes was the crackling of the fire. Occasionally, the trees around them would rustle again, but it was ignored by each party. Both seemed to be deeply in thought. _How does this kid know about this stuff? Why am I trusting him anyways? Why is he trusting me? What was he doing out in the woods that_ he _obviously knew people were disappearing in?_ Logan didn't have answers for any of them.

"Someone!" a cry came from the woods. "Someone help me! Anyone!" Logan jumped to his feet, this time not able to keep his claws from sliding out. He took a step forward before he felt a hand clamp on his arm. He growled and turned, shrugging Jim's hand off.

"Don't," Jim said. His eyes focused on the trees and his voice hard. "It can sound like a person. It's trying to draw us out." Jim turned to face him, his face set in stone. "Besides, if you break that line, I'd have to redraw everything, and we'd both be dead." Logan bristled at the tone in his voice. He didn't like listening to others, it was why he travelled alone, but he glanced down at the ground anyways. His foot was pretty close to one of the weird drawings. Even though he didn't like it, he stepped away. There hadn't been any attacks since Jim had drawn them in, so he figured he wouldn't try and screw them up.

He stepped closer to Jim, lining up so they were just inches apart. It annoyed him that Jim was taller and he had to look up to meet his eyes directly. "How do you know it isn't someone else that escaped from that cave like you, huh? They could need our help." Logan didn't offer help regularly, but he'd be damned if he was going to ignore someone that was yelling for his help either.

"I know because," Jim's flinty eyes wavered for a second. His voice came back quieter, "because there was no one else alive to escape from there."

Jim's voice was laced with guilt, and Logan felt sorry for ever asking. He dropped the matter, listening to the screams for help bouncing off the trees. A question nagged in his mind, and after an hour of silence, Logan finally asked it. "How do we get out of here?"

The question seemed to startle Jim, maybe he had been almost asleep, and he jerked up quickly. The fast movement must have pulled on his fresh wounds because Jim let out a groan. He took a moment to get his breath back, then glanced at Logan, "What?"

Logan repeated his question. "How do we get out of here? How do we get away from this thing?" Although the woods were quiet, Logan was under no impression that the thing had left. Its scent still hung in the air and every once in a while, the leaves would rustle loudly. At least it had stopped screaming. "How far are we from the edge of the woods anyways?"

Jim squinted, as if trying to decipher Logan's question. Logan could smell his pain and fear. It had gotten worse in the last hour. "Um, we are pretty deep in the woods. Maybe ten miles to the nearest paved road? And, uh, we have to wait for daylight and kill it with fire. Only thing that hurts 'em."

Nodding, Logan allowed silence to encompass the camp again. He wasn't normally one to need to be talking to someone, but something about this Jim guy was compelling him. Maybe it was the bonding-in-battle thing like soldiers say happens to them. For some reason Logan felt that he should know something about that. Or maybe it was that Jim seemed to be a decent guy who was hurting and Logan didn't want him to be focusing on that too much. Or maybe it was that when Logan saw Jim's eyes, heard the hurt when he talked about the dead people in the caves, Logan recognized some kind of kindred spirit. A soul that had suffered like his. Or maybe he just wanted some company for once. And so, he asked another question.

"How do you know about this wendigo freak anyways?"

Logan could almost feel Jim's irritation. This time, Jim didn't even look up. "You always this chatty, guy? Because I definitely got more of the strong, silent, brooding type from you." When Logan refused to rise to the bait, Jim sighed. "It's how I grew up, okay? My dad taught me all about it. It's my job."

Another question was on the tip of his tongue, dying to be asked. Part in because he really wanted to know, and part because it was obvious that Jim didn't want to answer another question. However, he was pretty sure that he either wouldn't get any kind of response, which wouldn't be so horrible, or the kid would stab him with the knife he'd mentioned earlier. Even though it wouldn't kill him, it would be an inconvenience. So he didn't ask. Didn't ask what kind of father raised his son that way, to fight a monster he shouldn't even know about. But then, he guessed he couldn't really judge the father. For all he knew, maybe his father had left him in the wilderness for the wolves to raise.

After another hour, Jim finally dropped off to sleep. He'd been losing the battle for the last half-hour, nodding off and then violently shaking himself awake, determined to stay vigilant. In his place, Logan stayed watchful instead. He was used to going days without sleep and he'd gotten a solid five hours the night before. There were only a few hours left until dawn anyways.

Logan looked at Jim. All signs of the fierce warrior that had stood back-to-back with him, facing off a monster, just a few hours before had disappeared. He figured that his previous estimate of early-twenties was probably a fair guess of Jim's age. And even though he didn't really understand how this time worked, he did know that someone Jim's age should probably be at college. Or at least have a job. _It's my job._ Jim's words rang in Logan's ears. Surely this wasn't Jim's only job. Not that Logan could point any fingers, seeing that he lived the nomadic lifestyle himself, but then again Logan wasn't really normal anyways. How many wendigoes could there be out there anyways?

 _Why do you even care?_ He asked himself. _You met this guy a few hours ago. You'll never see him again after tomorrow. Let it go._ And he did his best to follow his own advice. However, after an hour and a half, when Jim started whimpering in his dream, he couldn't deny the feelings of protectiveness that washed over him. Maybe he'd been an older brother once.

Logan stood and walked over by Jim. The nightmare seemed to be getting bad, and if it continued much longer, he was afraid Jim would thrash and reopen the barely sealed wounds on the abdomen. So, still heeding the thoughts of a knife somewhere on Jim's person, Logan softly kicked Jim's foot. "Hey, kid. Jim. Wake up."

Jim sat up with a gasp and a knife in his hand. He looked around wildly for the source of his panic before settling his eyes on Logan. The kid didn't say anything, simply slid the knife back from wherever it came from. "You should be more careful with who you wake up, pal."

Logan shrugged. "Not afraid of you," he grunted. Turning away from Jim, he walked over to his small pile of stuff and withdrew a canteen. Usually, it would be filled with some form of alcohol, but considering he'd been camping out for a few days, it was just water. Tipping back the container, he sucked in a generous amount of the metallic-tasting liquid. He wiped his mouth and turned back to Jim. It was obvious that Jim was trying not to watch Logan, but it was also perfectly clear that Jim had followed the canteen's movement the entire way. Feeling slightly guilty for not offering the injured man any earlier (it wasn't really his fault, he wasn't used to dealing with injuries that stayed longer than a few minutes), he thrust the canteen at the younger man. For a second Logan thought Jim wouldn't take it, but with only brief hesitation, Jim slowly reached out and closed his hand around the metal container. Jim raised the canteen with measured movements and then only took a few swallows before handing it back. Logan knew that those few sips couldn't have been nearly enough to satisfy the man, but he didn't push, from what he'd gathered from Jim so far, it would only make the young man drink less the next time.

The two men once again settled themselves on their respective sides of the fire. As the hours of night melted into the first signs of dawn, they each busied themselves in their own tasks. Logan tended to the fire and listened to the wendigo rustling the trees around them. Jim sharpened his knife (or knives, Logan wasn't paying close enough attention to know if there were multiple) and checked on his seeping wounds. When the first rays of sunlight cleared the trees, Logan asked another question.

"You have any kind of game plan?"

Jim shifted. He looked uncomfortable. "Uh, not really. I'm working on it."

Logan snorted in disbelief. "Well what was your original plan?"

He could smell the anger coming from the young man. "My original plan was to kill it yesterday with a Molotov cocktail and be home in time for cheeseburgers. It definitely didn't include being captured or spending the night in the woods with a guy that asks too many questions to be healthy. So unless you have the ingredients to make a Molotov cocktail, I suggest shutting it and letting me think."

Instead of being even slightly intimidated, which Logan was sure that was the kid's intention, he started chuckling. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the log."

Jim shot him glare. "Shut up, fuzzy. I'm trying to get your ass out of here alive. You should be thanking me." Logan wasn't concerned for himself. He figured that the wendigo would be no match for the Wolverine. However, a bleeding and significantly weakened young man seemed to be a perfect snack.

"I prefer to save my own ass," Logan walked over and planted himself next to Jim. "How about you tell me what you know about that thing and maybe we can figure something out."

Jim seemed hesitant at first, his eyes flicking to the fire and back to the ground again. "You basically know everything. Fire is the only thing that even tickles them, guns and knives only piss 'em off, and they're too fast to hit by anything less than a bullet."

Logan had to admit, when laid out like that, things seemed pretty grim. "So what was with the torch idea last night?"

The young man shrugged. "Didn't have anything better. Still don't." Jim stood suddenly. "I was hoping it'd at least back off during the night, maybe give us a chance to slip out unseen." He shook his head and gave a slight grin. "Guess we're just gonna have to wing it then."

Jim's own disregard for his own safety startled Logan. He considered tell the kid about his ability to heal and the fact that the wendigo couldn't kill him, maybe volunteer to try and finish it off himself. But he figured that he'd just get shot down, so he stayed silent.

Twenty minutes later, Jim had decided that there was no time like the present. Armed with nothing more than two torches, the men stood at the edge of one of the protection symbols. Logan had all his stuff packed, ready to run like hell when Jim said 'go' even though he'd been bluntly informed it was probably hopeless. When Logan had looked at the kid earlier, he seemed tense, his eyes starting to get panicky. It worried Logan, he didn't want to go through with this with some kid that wasn't going to follow through, even though he hadn't gotten that sense from Jim at all. Then he saw something in the kid's hands. It was one of those cell phone things. Jim was studying it, emotions Logan couldn't hope to read flashing across his face. After a minute, the kid seemed to reach some kind of decision and the cell phone was shoved back into one of his pants' pockets.

The plan was nothing short of suicidal. The entire plan was to run, try to light up the wendigo without burning down the whole forest, and stay on their feet, in no particular order. It became apparent that Jim didn't expect to make it out of this alive and the fact that he'd accepted it tore at Logan.

Jim saw Logan glance at him, and the kid shot him a grin. To someone normal, it might have seemed wild and reckless, without a care. But Logan wasn't normal, and he could easily read the fear in the kid's eyes. He could also read the determination. "Ready, Fuzzy?"

Although Logan bristled at the nickname (since he hadn't given Jim his name, he guessed the kid felt it appropriate to come up with something on his own), he simply answered with a quick nod. Before either of them could hesitate, Jim swept his foot across the protection symbol. Both men took off like a shot, carrying their flaming weapons. The woods shook with the sound of the wendigo's roar, frighteningly close.

Logan relished the feel of the blood pumping through his veins, the trees whipping past him. There was no way that thing could catch him, no matter what the kid said. _The kid._ His thoughts stopped him so quickly he almost fell. Jim had been injured, had been bleeding most of the night, there was no way he was running at a pace that even resembled fast. The wendigo would have no trouble catching him. Logan turned in a quick circle. Nothing stirred in the forest. The ominous rustling that had plagued the men the night before was gone.

Panic surged through the mutant. Something about Jim had awoken something in Logan he didn't know he possessed. The ability to care. In the hours spent huddled around their fire, Logan had learned a few things about Jim. One, he probably had a family somewhere, maybe a girl. Two, he wanted to get out of this, he had things to live for. And three, he was ready to give that all away for a stranger he couldn't have picked from a lineup the morning before. Logan would be damned if he let that kid die because he didn't turn around.

Logan took off running again, this time back to their campsite. He hadn't gotten too far away during the first run, so he prayed he'd make it back in time. As he got closer, he could once again hear the wendigo's snarls. Slowing, he stayed in the trees, hoping to get a read on the situation before charging in.

Jim was laying on the ground, holding his stomach and sporting some new claw marks running down the length of his cheek. That didn't stop him from staring defiantly up at the monster, though. For the first time, Logan got a good look at their adversary.

It was by far the ugliest creature Logan had ever seen. It was tall, standing over seven feet probably, and everything about it seemed not to scale. A ratty string of hair hung off the back of its almost bald head. Strange markings encircled its withered arms, they might have been tattoos or body painting at some point. The worst part was, it was standing directly over Jim, rearing its arm back in what was obviously the fatal blow.

Without another thought, Logan leapt from the woods with a roar of his own. In one hand, he still carried his torch, but the other hand had sprouted his claws, flashing with deadly intent. He must have caught the wendigo off guard, it probably too intent on its prey to be aware of its surroundings, because he swore he could see a look of shock twist its grotesque face. It didn't have a chance to react, though.

Logan barreled into the monstrosity, carrying it away from Jim. With his clawed hand, he impaled the wendigo through, pinning it firmly to the ground. The thing flailed underneath him, hissing and growling in some freakish mashup of a jungle cat and a wolf. Its claws got in some pretty good swipes up his back and side, but he barely noticed. Taking the torch, he held it against the thing's leathery skin and waited for it to ignite. Once the wendigo's skin finally caught on fire and began making a noise could only be described as screaming, Logan retracted his claws and jumped off. He watched as the creature lay in its death throes, strangely satisfied. A moan of pain tore his attention away.

Jim lay curled on his side, breathing heavily. Every few seconds, he shook as the next wave of pain rocked him. Loan approached slowly, hoping the kid was coherent enough to recognize him as a friend and not an enemy.

"Easy, kid," he said as he dropped into a crouch next to Jim's trembling form. He gently pried the kid's hands away from his stomach. It didn't look like the wendigo had gotten in another swipe (at his midsection at least), but when he'd hit the ground he'd broken open the wounds that had just started to scab. This looked bad.

A trembling voice pulled him from his morose thoughts. "Y – you ok – ay?"

Logan couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped. He quickly scanned himself and saw that the marks on him from the wendigo's claws were already fading, except for the damage done to his clothing of course. _Yeah. I'm fine. Just like always,_ he thought bitterly. Aloud he said, "You should spend more time worrying about yourself, kid." He frowned and stripped his top layer to press against Jim's wounds. "How far did ya say it was to the closet road?" Maybe if he could get Jim there, someone would drive by and be able to get them to the hospital.

Jim snorted, then groaned. "For – forget it." With a shaky hand, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew the cell phone he'd been staring at earlier. "Call Sammy," he whispered. "Tell – tell 'em what h – happened."

"Oh hell no," Logan said. "I don't even know how to use one of those damn things. So if ya wanna give your last requests speech, ya better hang on 'til I get ya somewhere with somebody else. Now," he leaned in closer to the wounded man. "How far to the nearest road?"

For several long seconds, Logan was afraid Jim wouldn't answer and he'd have to try and find the road by himself. Finally, though, Jim replied, though it sounded more like a sigh than anything. "Ten miles."

Logan watched as Jim's eyes started to flutter closed. "Hey. Hey!" Logan snapped and slapped Jim's cheek lightly. "Don't go ta sleep now." He grasped the kid's arm that wasn't clutched around his stomach. "Come on." With one fluid motion, he heaved Jim to his feet. Jim let out a feeble cry of pain before screwing his lips shut.

He carefully pulled Jim's arm over his broad shoulders and turned to the smoldering pile the wendigo had left. Slowly, he hobbled the two of them over and stomped out the ashes. Couldn't be too careful with the dryness of the trees this time of year. They were lucky the blaze from the wendigo hadn't made everything else go up (he didn't know where Jim's torch was, but he didn't smell any other fire so he figured they were safe). With that task complete, he started their long trek back to civilization, and, more importantly, help. Cursing silently the fact that he hadn't asked for a direction, he stopped and glanced at Jim. The kid was still conscious but in obvious pain. His eyes were closed tightly and sweat rolled down his face. He felt bad about bothering him again, but he needed an answer.

Gently, he bumped his shoulders up and down to gain Jim's attention. The kid pried his eyes open. "Which direction?" Jim muttered something and gestured his head to their left. It wasn't entirely clear as to what he'd said, but it was enough to give Logan a starting point at least. Squaring his shoulders in determination, he once again set off, desperate to keep the man relying on him alive.

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The journey to the road was something straight out of nightmares. Jim hung heavily from his shoulders, every ragged breath he took seared into Logan's brain. Logan could feel the kid's blood dripping on to his shirt, a constant reminder of the urgency of their trek. Every noise set Logan's nerves on edge until they were razor thin. Sweat rolled down his back starting at mile eight, the weight of two men beginning to wear on even his enhanced strength.

Finally, the sound of a vehicle disrupted the natural sounds of the forest. He had never heard something so sweet. Gently setting Jim down, he raced the last few yards to the road, desperate to catch someone's attention. He knew Jim's time was running out. The kid hadn't made a noise besides his breathing for over half the trip and after six miles, Logan was pretty much dragging him. If he was going to make it out alive, Logan needed to get him help fast.

Without a thought, Logan dashed onto the road. Jumping almost directly in front of the car that was coming, he started yelling. "Hey! Stop! Hey!" The car's breaks squealed as the driver did their best not to hit him. It was close, the car screeching to a stop within feet of Logan. Before Logan had a chance to explain himself, the car door slammed and Logan found himself faced with a young woman with dark hair.

"What the hell, man?" she screamed at him. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Who does stuff like that?"

Logan held up his hands, trying the stop the angry words from flying at him. He was well aware that every second he spent listening to her was seconds Jim's life was bleeding into the forest floor. Unable to get a word in edgewise, Logan finally grabbed the woman's shoulders, forcing her to be quiet. "Please just shut up for a second! Sorry I jumped in front of your car but my friend is dying in the woods back there and I need help!" Logan was surprised by the word 'friend' as it came out of his mouth, but even if it wasn't true, it would make it more believable to her.

The woman looked like she wanted to say something about him grabbing her, but then appeared to focus on his words instead. "Wait, someone's actually dying back there?" she craned her neck, as if trying to catch a glimpse of Jim.

Frustration boiled near the surface for Logan. He didn't understand the ridiculous women in this time. Their first reaction to something like 'he's dying' was not to call for help but get a better look. "Yes," he gritted through his teeth. "Will you call the hospital while I go get him?"

"Oh, coverage sucks out here," the woman informed him, almost cheerfully. "But the hospital is just, like, ten miles down the road if you want me to drive you there."

For a moment, Logan considered walking the ten miles rather than be stuck in a car with this woman, but he thought of the torturous trip he and Jim had already taken and knew they couldn't do it again. He gave a grunt of agreement and turned back to the trees to fetch the young man who, over the course of twelve hours, had somehow managed to become his only friend.

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Logan had been waiting for the past two hours for news on Jim. The drive with the dark-haired woman could have been studied as a method of torture, but Logan almost kissed her when he saw the sign for the hospital come into view. Things moved very quickly after that. Jim was given one look by the emergency bay doctors and was rushed into an operating room. The dark-haired woman, who told him her name was Carly, was apparently quite taken with the stranger she'd almost run over ten minutes before and asked if he wanted her to wait with him. With a firm 'no', he ushered her away and settled himself in the waiting room.

During the time he was waiting, Logan prayed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that in the past twenty-four hours, which was odd. In all the years that he could remember, he'd never prayed. He wasn't sure whether or not he believed in God, but he was certain that he didn't care about a mutant named Logan either way. But now, he found himself begging with the big guy himself that Jim's life be spared.

"Mr. Logan?" Jim's doctor's voice called. She was a woman in her late fifties with gentle eyes and smile lines around her face, someone that could be trusted. Logan stood and sent out a final prayer that the news was good. Dr. Johnson smiled. "He's awake. His injuries were pretty serious, but since you brought him in in time, he should be just fine. Want to see him?"

Logan nodded and followed the doctor back into the maze of the hospital. They finally stopped in front of door E-463. Dr. Johnson opened the door and walked in. Logan trailed close behind.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't have that in here," Dr. Johnson was speaking to Jim and gesturing at the cell phone he had in his hands.

Dean nodded. "Just a sec," he said to whoever he was talking to on the phone. He brought it away from his ear and fixed Dr. Johnson with a smile. "I promise I'll be quick. And then I'll be a model patient," he held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

Her will seemed to waver a bit. "Well, alright, but just another minute." With that, she swept out of the room, most likely to attend to other patients.

"Yeah, Dad, Minnesota. No, no problems, just a little banged up. Yeah. Spirit? Sure, give me a couple days. Please, Dad, I've been dealing with spirits since I was ten. Yep. Check in tomorrow."

Logan listened to Jim's conversation with conflicting emotions. One was embarrassment, as listening in to other people's conversations was considered rude. The other was anger. The man on the other end of the line was Jim's dad, the man that had raised his son to hunt monsters. 'Just a little banged up'? Logan hoped Jim's dad realized how close he'd come to losing his son.

"Thanks for coming back," Jim's voice came from the bed. Logan looked passed the bandages covering the boy's stomach and to his eyes. They were filled with genuine gratitude and a hint of surprise, as if he hadn't expected Logan to turn around and save him. What had happened to this kid that made him think he wasn't worth the effort of saving?

Logan wasn't good with any kind of displays of emotion so he just shrugged and nodded. "Got a girl?"

His question seemed to catch Jim off guard. "What?"

"You wanted me to call someone," Logan said, and took a step forward. "Someone named Sam. Your girl?"

He watched as a flash of pain crossed Jim's face at the name. However, it was gone too quickly for him to really decipher. Then, a small grin tugged at Jim's mouth. "Can you only talk with questions? I swear man, it's like twenty questions with you." Jim seemed to want a reaction from Logan so he could change the subject, but Logan didn't give him any. So, Jim sighed and answered his question. "No. Ah, no. My brother."

Logan just nodded, sensing the topic wasn't up for discussion. The men sat in awkward silence for a minute, neither knowing what to say.

Jim broke the quiet. "Well, I'm gonna be out of here in a few days so you really don't need to hang around." Logan could smell he was lying. Judging by the phone call, Jim would be getting out by tomorrow at the latest, one way or another. He didn't say anything, though.

Sticking out his hand, Jim grasped it and they shook. "Try to avoid hanging out in anymore wendigo-infested woods," Jim said. "I'd hate to have to come and save your ass again.

"Drugs must be messing with ya, bub," Logan snorted. "The only one that did any ass-saving was me." Jim rolled his eyes but didn't protest. Once again the room was silent, but this time the silence was comfortable. "Logan." He watched Jim's head flip up. "Logan is my name. Can't remember the last."

Jim nodded. "Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you, Logan," he replied and held up his hand again. Logan grabbed it and shook it again, this time as friends, not acquaintances. It might have been cheesy, but it seemed significant. Without another word, Logan walked out the door, certain he'd never see the kid again.

As he walked down the hallway towards the exit, he thought to himself, _Dean Winchester. Yeah. That fits much better than Jim._

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 **AN: So that was my attempt at a crossover! I hope you guys liked it! I have to apologize for any times I might have typed Dean instead of Jim before the ending…I tried to catch them all but I couldn't quite wrap my head around calling him Jim! Also, I hope that Logan was in character enough. Since I haven't had any experience writing him, I wasn't sure I was portraying him accurately or not. I have a lot of more ideas for oneshots like this so let me know if you think it's worth continuing. Thanks again for reading! Also, I apologize that I didn't finish Beware the Jester before posting this, but this has been sitting on my computer for a little while and I just got excited to post it. Sorry!**


	2. The People You Meet in Bars

**AN: A huge thanks to everyone who expressed interest in this story! I was super excited by the response I got with reviews, favorites, and follows! However, it also made me a little nervous about expectations for this story. So hopefully I met them with this chapter. Also, sorry for the long wait. I really haven't been motivated to write this summer. I hope some people are still interested in this story! Enjoy!**

 **The People You Meet in Bars**

(Dean's POV)

Dean sat at the almost-empty bar alone. He'd been sitting there for almost two hours, listening to the low sounds from an ancient jukebox in the corner and feeling his body gradually start to stiffen up. The last hunt had been nothing short of a beating. It wasn't anything special. Just another spirit that didn't know when to say enough was enough. He'd been going on hunts like those since he was ten.

One thing had changed, though. Sam was gone, and since Sam had started going on hunts when he was twelve, Dean had become accustomed to having his brother watch his back and his blind spots. It was fast becoming a painful habit to break. On more than one hunt now, he'd found himself more battered than usual as the spooks caught him off guard. This time just had more visible evidence.

His jacket was coated in a fine layer of dust and ashes, already enough to scare away most people. It only got worse from there. The only skin visible (his neck, face, and hands) were littered with small scratches and scrapes from the various items the spirit had hurled at him. Broken glass shone from his hair and crevices in his jacket, stuck there from when a delicate vase had shattered a few inches above his head. The worse, though, was his face. Catching him completely off guard and spinning, the spirit had decided to use his face as a battering ram against the wall. As a result, a spectacular bruise covered almost all the right side of his face and was still swelling. All in all, even if there had been any willing females at the bar that night, he was pretty sure he would have scared them off.

 _Good thing Dad can't see me now,_ Dean thought. _He'd kick my ass for letting a spirit get one over on me._ Sure he'd finished the hunt and the spirit was resting (or whatever) now, but he knew that wouldn't have been good enough for his father. One of the things drilled into him all throughout his youth was to always be on guard, to always watch his back.

 _Yeah, well, Dad, you never taught me how to hunt alone. I thought that was another rule._

Before his dark thoughts could go much further, the room behind the bar erupted in loud noise. The crowd that was gathered there seemed to be riled up about something, and it was only getting louder. A part of Dean was annoyed at the people. They lived their happy, monster-free existences and never knew that people like Dean were out there sacrificing their lives for them. How dare they be carefree when he felt the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders?

 _Woah, Dean. Back up. When did you get to be emo like Sam? Knock it off,_ he told himself. So, with great effort, he did his best to shake off his dark mood. Picking up his beer, he moved to the back room to see what all the fuss was about.

The back room was dark and jammed with people. They all seemed to be watching something in the center of the room with intensity. Curious, Dean maneuvered his way closer. A man to the right of him was calling out something, but Dean was more focused on the sounds in front of him. The sound of bodies hitting the floor was something he was intimately familiar with. From long days of relentless training with his father and brother to more kinds of super-powered freaks than he could count on both hands and feet slamming him around, he knew someone was getting a beat-down in this dark room. And they'd be feeling it for a while.

When he'd finally gotten close enough to see what the people were crowding around for, he was in for a shock. There was some sort of ring fashioned in the middle with two people fighting in it. That wasn't what shocked Dean, though. What shocked him, was that he recognized one of the men in the middle.

Flashes of a bitter fall night almost two months ago assaulted him from both sides. The fear in the wendigo's lair. The bitterness of realizing there was no one left to save. The pain as he ran for his life through the woods to escape. The surprise of running into someone who was actually willing and able to help. The even greater surprise that that man had come back to save his life when he could have run.

"Hey," some redneck in a cowboy hat grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. "You a cop?"

"What?" Dean was taken back. "No. Hell, no. Do I look like a cop to you?" He gestured at his ragged appearance. The redneck took a long look, long enough to make Dean feel uncomfortable, before nodding and disappearing back into the crowd. Dean rolled his eyes as he turned back to the ring. One thing to be said about small towns like this, everybody knew everybody and nobody seemed to enjoy or trust strangers that came poking around.

"And once again," the man from earlier called out. "Our champion is Wolverine!"

The room was filled with cheers from people who'd bet correctly and grumbles and boos from those who hadn't. Quickly, people filed out and back into the main room, most of them probably to enjoy another drink before stumbling home. Dean stood still, though. In the ring was a man who'd saved his life. The only person in the last two months that he'd met that had actually cared about his safety more than their own. Didn't that at least warrant a hello?

Dean shook himself. He'd only met this man once in a desperate twelve hours that were mostly a blur in his mind. What were the odds that Logan (that was his name, right?) even still remembered him? Without giving himself time to second-guess his decision, Dean walked back to the main room to lose himself amongst the crowd.

Conveniently, Dean's stool from minutes before was still unoccupied. Settling himself down, he promised he'd have just one more beer before calling it a night. The next morning, he'd put this town in his rearview and call up Bobby to see if there was a hunt he could look into.

As he held up a finger to the bartender to signal for another beer, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. He tensed, figuring it was another good ol' boy that wasn't taking kindly to strangers. Sighing, he tilted his head and prayed that this wouldn't end in a fight. It wasn't that he thought he couldn't win, but more that he didn't want to exert the energy it'd take to wipe the floor with someone.

"Geez, bub, ya look worse than the last time I saw ya. And that was in a hospital."

The voice matched the figure of Logan. It was a relief that it wasn't someone looking for a fight, but now Dean didn't know what to do. It wasn't often that Dean was out of his comfort zone, but this was definitely one of those times. What did you say to someone who'd saved your life? It wasn't like he'd never been saved before, but that was mainly by his dad, Sam, or Bobby, and with them it was an understanding that no words were needed. Instead of fumbling through an awkward thanks, Dean settled for a grin and a smartass comment.

"What can I say," he held up his beer bottle. "It's a gift."

Logan snorted and stood beside him awkwardly. They might have formed a friendship forged in blood that night months ago, but they were both still men and chick-flick moments were strictly off the table.

"That was one hell of a fight," Dean remarked. He thought back to the way Logan had fought the man minutes before, to the blurry images he could recall of Logan fighting and killing the wendigo. _Man, would my dad love to have him on a hunt._

When there was no answer, Dean glanced from his beer to Logan again. He was slightly startled to find the man staring intently at his bruised face.

"How many wendigoes are out there?" Logan asked and met Dean's eyes.

Quickly, Dean glanced around the room to make sure no one overheard. All it took was one wrong person to hear and they'd be thrown in the nearest looney bin. Assured that no one had picked up on Logan's comment, Dean looked back at him again.

"I don't know. I mean, I guess they're kinda rare. And it's hard to find more than one or two a year since they spend most of their time hibernating."

Logan gestured at his face. "Then where'd ya get that? Find another one already?"

It took Dean a minute to understand Logan's confusion. Usually, when a civilian somehow got thrown into supernatural battle and the nightmarish things they saw couldn't be explained away, Dean would tell them the whole story. Spirits, werewolves, ghouls, and no Big Foot. However, the situation he'd met Logan in hadn't provided that opportunity. He'd been hurt, reeling, and trying to figure a way out of the situation alive. It had been a need-to-know kind of situation, and Logan had only needed to know about wendigoes at that time. "Um," Dean reached up to scratch the back of his head in another moment of rare uncertainty. "No. I don't just hunt wendigoes. Spirits, werewolves, demons, and a whole bunch of other nasty crap."

The only sign that Logan was surprised was his eyebrows arching upward. "Huh." He seemed to be mulling it over in his head, and Dean waited to see if he'd say anything else. After a minute, Logan refocused on Dean. "So what the hell did that to ya?"

It was surprising for a person to take the news that nightmares were real so well. However, Dean guessed that the fact that Logan had already killed a wendigo was helping with his acceptance of it. Dean gripped his beer again and took a stiff swallow. "Just a spirit. They get real nasty when you try to burn their bones."

Again, Logan didn't seem alarmed by his statement. "Hope it looks worse than you."

"'Course. I am a professional after all," Dean relied with a quick smirk. He finished his beer with a long swig and gestured for another one.

Logan snorted from beside him. "Well, bub, if that's how a professional looks in your job, I'm sure glad I'm not in the profession."

Dean almost let loose a laugh, but instead started on his next beer. Neither him nor Logan spoke for a while. They simply sat, both seeming to enjoy the easy company of a friend for once.

Eventually, they started up an easy conversation. Nothing too personal, but things most every guy knew about. They had settled on the topic of sports.

"It's un-American!" Dean cried. He was feeling looser with the couple of beers in him. Definitely not drunk by any means, but relaxed enough to forget about his responsibilities for a while.

"'M Canadian, bub. Don't have to be American," Logan muttered sounding as serious as he had all night. If one looked closely, though, there was a different set to his shoulders, less on guard than before.

Dean sighed and shook his head. "But it's baseball. Lots of countries like baseball. There's a whole world series for baseball."

"Hockey," Logan stated as if he'd been asked something. "It's the only real sport."

Their battle raged over the better sport for a while until the topic turned to something else, still nothing of consequence. The bar crowd was starting to thin out, leaving behind only the truly wasted, the broken-hearted, and Dean and Logan. Everything had gone well and Dean was ready to call it a night, satisfied with how the evening had ended up, when a question from Logan changed that.

"How's Sam?"

The question froze Dean as if his veins were suddenly filled with ice water instead of blood. He tensed up again, the warm feeling the alcohol had created vanishing instantly. Logan shifted next to him, seeming to sense a change in the atmosphere.

Dean knew his reaction was stupid. It wasn't like Sam had died, he'd gone to college like so many hundreds of thousands of graduating seniors did every year. He was sure, though, that most of those seniors didn't plan on never seeing their families again. Hadn't left with the words of their father screaming _If you walk out that door, don't ever come back!_ ringing in their ears. He also knew he should accept it. Him and Sam were both adults. They didn't need each other 24/7. Or, at least, one of them didn't. But a very large part of Dean still cried out for his younger brother, his charge of eighteen years. It was an open wound, and it was festering.

Gritting his teeth and screwing up his courage as if he was facing a hell hound, he finally spoke. "He's at college." Following that, he downed the rest of his beer and braced himself for the next question.

Fortunately, Logan didn't seem to have any more questions, and Dean almost sighed in relief. He didn't know if he could handle anything further about Sam. Without another thought, Dean stood up, so quickly he almost overturned the stool he'd been resting on the whole night. Most of the few people remaining in the bar swiveled their heads at the sound of the stool skidding against the floor, letting out a shriek of protest against the abuse.

Dean rapidly dug out his wallet and grabbed most of the last of his dwindling reserves of real cash and threw it down on the bar. Then, he stuck his hand out to Logan. "Nice seeing you again."

Logan stood slowly and grasped his hand with what almost looked like reluctance. But, they firmly shook hands, and before Logan had the chance to say anything, Dean turned on his heel and strode to the exit of the bar.

As he walked to his beloved Impala, he thought about how he'd left the bar. It wasn't fair to Logan to leave so abruptly, especially since he hadn't really done anything except make conversation. But as soon as Sam's name had come up, it felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs and a deep burning pain flashed across his chest that he recognized as longing. He'd just had to get out as soon as he could. Out and away from the memories of a brother that wasn't coming back.

When he reached the Impala, he leaned against it, resting his forearm above the window, and allowed himself to catch his breath. He stood like that for a minute until he felt his heartrate start to settle back to normal. "Hell of a night, Baby," he whispered. Finally feeling steady enough to drive himself back to his room safely, he reached for the keys in his jacket pocket. Before he could withdraw them, though, he felt a presence at his back.

Figuring it was Logan following him out to demand answers, he left the keys in his pocket and turned to face him. The man standing behind him wasn't Logan though, and it wasn't just one man either. The one standing closest to him was wearing a familiar-looking cowboy hat, and Dean recognized him as the man who'd grabbed him in the crowd earlier. This time though, he looked like he was spoiling for a fight, and he'd brought friends.

Dean put out his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, I already told you," he directed his words to Cowboy Hat. "I'm not a cop. I won't turn in your little fighting ring." He wasn't afraid of a fight, but it'd been a long night already and he didn't desire to make it longer by showing a couple of good ol' boys to pick on people their own size.

"Nah, we know that," Cowboy Hat said, letting a slight drawl enter his tone. "Ya seemed real friendly with Wolverine in there," he fixed Dean with a hard stare. "Ya friends or somethin'?"

Dean maintained his calm exterior as his mind raced to find the right answer. Would him being friends with Logan improve or deteriorate the situation? He settled for the truth. "Or something." He didn't figure two chance meetings could technically be called a friendship.

Cowboy Hat turned to look at his friends. Then, he faced Dean again with a smirk. "Ya see, we don't 'preciate Wolverine comin' in an' takin' our hard earned money."

Dean shook his head, wanting to just get in his car and crash in his motel, but that outcome wasn't looking too likely at this point. He shifted slightly into a fighting position, never taking his eyes off the men in front of him. "Sorry boys, but as far as I could tell Wolverine is doing honest fighting in there. So how about you get the hell away from my car and we can all call it a night?"

On almost any other night, Dean might have welcomed the confrontation, the opportunity to teach these young bucks (who weren't really much younger than him) that thought they knew something a lesson. However, it had been a long enough day already and Dean's body was starting to feel the toll of the beating it'd taken earlier. Also, the six guys backing Cowboy Hat were filled with confidence fueled by alcohol and seemed experienced in fighting enough to be a problem to Dean's aching body. But it'd be a cold day in hell before Dean Winchester backed down from a fight. So, Dean resigned himself to a few new bruises and squared up.

The first couple men tightened up their semi-circle and moved in, swaying ever-so-slightly in their drunkenness. Dean was careful to keep his back up against the Impala. As much as he hated to put his baby in the line of fire, he knew it was his best chance of holding off the seven men.

Cowboy Hat threw the first punch, the alcohol in his system slowing the blow enough to allow Dean to block it. He managed to get in two solid punches before Cowboy Hat stumbled back and was replaced by two of his friends.

For a few minutes, Dean held his own, confident in his ability to deal with the situation. However, as the fight drug on, his already exhausted body started screaming with fatigue. He felt his punches start to slow, and he started to be on the receiving end of more blows than he was giving out.

Finally, he made a damning error. In the heat of the fight, he'd allowed himself to be moved farther away from the Impala. Normally, this wouldn't be something that would occur as Dean wouldn't let it, and even if it did, there was a chance he'd be able to rectify the situation. Tonight was not a normal night though, and, with his body starting to wear down and his mind still partially on his brother, the mistake cost him.

Three of Cowboy Hat's friends circled around behind him, and, while he was trying to fend off blows from the front, hit him on the head from the back. He dropped like a stone, dazed but not unconscious by any means. Immediately, more hits started to rain down on him from above. Kicks dug into his ribs and torso. Dean put his arms above his head, desperate to protect that from the furious attack. He couldn't find the purchase to try and regain his footing, so he stayed where he lay, praying the damaged stranger wouldn't hold the drunken men's attentions for much longer.

As the pain in his body ratcheted up, Dean's vision started to waver in and out of focus. Before it dimmed completely, though, he heard something that almost sounded like a snarl coming from a distance. In his disoriented state, Dean imagined it was a one of the many supernatural beasts he'd fought in his life coming to destroy him while he was at his weakest. Knowing he could do nothing to stop it in his current state, he remained motionless and hoped it would be quick.

All at once, he felt the assault on him cease. There seemed to be some exchange of words but Dean was too busy trying to cling to consciousness to concentrate on what was being said. He might be accepting that he was going to die, but he would never have it said that he went without getting a final word in. The volume of the speakers increased and Dean recognized the sound of a body hitting the ground. Then, it was silent. Feeling something settle next to him, he forced his eyes to reopen (he didn't remember when they'd closed) and meet what was going to kill him head on.

The dark figure was silhouetted against the moon and cut an imposing figure. There did seem to be something familiar about it, though. Dean let out a tiny sigh of relief as he recognized it. "Hell, kid. 'M gonna start ta think it's my fault that ya end up in these situations," Logan's deep voice grumbled. Dean watched through slanted eyelids as Logan's eyes took in his current state. A part of him longed to make a witty retort and lighten the situation into something more comfortable. However, his body hurt too much to take that effort so instead, he grunted in response.

Dean startled slightly when he felt Logan's hand land on his shoulder. Even that slight movement jostled his injuries and caused him to groan. "Come on, kid," Logan said in a voice that was almost soft. The smaller man tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder and brought the other one to grasp his opposite forearm. With a fluid move, Logan hoisted Dean into a standing position with one of Dean's arms draped around his shoulders. The move was hauntingly familiar, dredging up memories from that forest several months ago.

Somewhere in his subconscious, Dean recognized the sound of his baby's door creaking open. He groaned as he felt the shift in his body when Logan deposited him on the supple vinyl of the old car's seats. Dean closed his eyes tightly, trying to will away his fierce headache as he listened to the Impala roar to life. The sound of the engine turning over was more comforting than any mother's lullaby and he felt himself relax to its tempo.

The next thing he knew, Logan had his hand on his shoulder again. "Kid," Logan was shaking him gently. "C'mon, kid, get up. There's no way in hell I'm luggin' your heavy ass all the way inside so you're gonna have ta work with me."

Dean moaned and considered telling Logan to shove it, that he'd sleep in the car, not like it'd be the first time. However, he figured that whether or not it was under his own power he was getting into that motel room, and his stubborn pride wouldn't allow the other man to carry him, not while he was still conscious. So, summoning every bit of strength he had, he pulled his aching body out of the car and flopped his arm around Logan's shoulders once again. Then, one painful shuffle at a time, both men made their way into the motel.

Barely coherent long enough to realize the room he'd been brought to wasn't the room he'd paid for, Dean collapsed onto the bed and immediately gave into the siren song of darkness.

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(Logan's POV) (Half an hour before)

Logan watched Dean's retreating figure as the kid beat a hasty retreat. He couldn't refrain from cursing at himself. From what he remembered from their last encounter, Sam was a touchy subject, one to be left alone at all costs. However, the night had been progressing well and Logan figured he'd try his luck. As soon as he'd seen Dean's face, though, he knew he'd made the wrong choice.

The look Dean's face had taken at the mention of his brother was enough to cut anyone to their very soul. He looked haunted and broken for a moment before he carefully guarded himself and exited. There was no sign of the competent, deadly hunter he'd met in the forest two months ago. Instead, the man who'd just left was off balance and probably wouldn't be able to fight his way out of a litter of kittens.

Turning his attention back to the TV that was still playing highlights from the latest baseball game, Logan finished off the rest of his beer with a quick swallow. It didn't taste nearly as satisfying as it had minutes before. Giving himself a moment to sit, he thought over his next course of action. He'd probably go back to Canada. There, there weren't any young hunters with tortured eyes and damaged souls that he had no right to be concerned over. With a plan firmly in mind (head north at first sign of daybreak), he stood, set a few bills on the bar, and walked out the doors.

While in the parking lot, something caught his eye. Most of the cars in the lot were old, broken-down, or pick-ups. One was different, though. It was an older car, true, but it was in pristine condition and gleamed even in the dull light of the neon from the bar. He wasn't much of a "car guy" but it was enough to make him pause. And that pause was just enough.

Coming from the other side of the car, he could hear quiet noises of a fight. Grunts, groans, and skin hitting skin raised his concern. But, even though he felt bad for whoever was on the other end of the beating, he probably wouldn't have stopped. He didn't go out of his way to throw himself into harm's way for strangers, but then a gust of stale wind blew across the lot. The breeze carried several scents on it, and they all pointed to Dean being the one in trouble on the other side of the car.

Instantly, the protective instincts he felt whenever around Dean turned on in full force. He headed towards the car at a run, covering the ground in seconds, and a low growl worked its way out from his throat. The attackers didn't know what hit them.

When he reached the fight (if it could be called that, beat-down was probably more appropriate), he didn't bother to say anything. With anger fueling his already enhanced strength, he ripped the three men that were currently kicking and punching Dean off the young man in quick succession. A few swift punches ensured they'd stay down and he turned to the man in the cowboy hat. He'd seen Cowboy Hat around a few times since he'd first come to the bar. Cowboy Hat had a loud mouth, a mean temper, and a bad habit of betting on the wrong fighter. He had also made his dislike of Logan perfectly clear. Figuring that all that added up to Cowboy Hat being the ring leader of the other six men, Logan turned to him, grabbed two fistfuls of the man's jacket, and shoved him into the nearest car.

"Listen to me, bub, and listen close 'cause I ain't gonna repeat myself. You and your little gang had better be away from this bar in the next two minutes, and if I see you here again before I leave – " he let himself trail off. The threat was blatant. All the men there had seen him fighting in the ring and knew any confrontation wouldn't end well for them. "And if ya ever _look_ at him again," he inclined his head at Dean's still form, "I'll kill ya. Slow." He allowed his claws to slide out a few inches and graze the underside Cowboy Hat's chin. Cowboy Hat nodded quickly, suddenly eager to please. Logan let him sweat for a few more seconds before roughly letting go. The man edged carefully past him and, when he'd reached relative safety, scrambled off towards one of the few remaining vehicles followed by the rest of his gang that was still conscious.

Logan watched as the men took off, clouds of dust kicking up behind the cars as they screeched from the parking lot. When the last car faded into the distance, he turned back to Dean's prone figure. He felt his worry climb higher as he noticed that Dean hadn't moved since Logan intervened. Approaching cautiously, well aware that the young hunter was a force to be reckoned with, he didn't get too close before he was sure Dean knew who he was.

Dean's eyes were narrowed into slits as he looked up from the ground. Logan saw the hostility fade from the young hunter's eyes. Hoping that hearing his voice would further solidify that Logan was not a threat, he said, "Hell, kid. 'M gonna start ta think it's my fault that ya end up in these situations." He shifted in a way that the weak light from the lampposts would shine better on Dean's battered figure.

When Logan had first seen Dean in the bar, the hunter had already looked like hell. In this light, though, the kid looked only slightly better than death warmed over. He had to get to a better place than this crappy parking lot to make sure Dean was okay. So, he leaned down next to Dean and clasped a hand on the wounded man's shoulder. The younger man groaned and Logan winced in sympathy. However, he pushed it down, knowing that Dean's pain would only be worse if he continued to lay where he was.

"Come on, kid," he said quietly, tightening his grip on Dean's shoulder and wrapping his other hand around the younger man's other forearm. In a quick move that he hoped didn't increase Dean's pain much, he pulled the hunter up and draped the arm he was holding around his shoulders. A wave of déjà vu washed over him as he remembered when he first met Dean.

As soon as Dean was standing, Logan realized a flaw in his plan. He didn't know what car was Dean's. Figuring that it was one of the cars Dean was next to, he braced himself for an awkward situation. Dean was out of it enough that he wouldn't be any help. So, resigning himself to the task he was about to do, he propped the hunter up against the black muscle car and patted him down, searching for keys.

"This better not be the one thing ya remember from this night, kid," Logan gritted out. Discovering the keys in Dean's jacket pocket, he pulled them out. Seeing the Chevy tag hanging from the keys, Logan sent up a silent thank you that Dean's car was the one they were currently leaning against. With some effort, Logan heaved Dean up and around to the other side of the car. After struggling for a minute with trying to unlock the door with one hand, Logan managed to open the door and set Dean down on the car's shining black seats.

Logan shut the door carefully and jogged over to the driver's side of the old car. He winced as the door creaked open, and shot a quick glance to make sure Dean hadn't been disturbed. However, the hunter was leaned up against the back of the seat, eyes still shut. Sliding in behind the steering wheel, he gave himself a moment familiarize in the new car. Then, he slid the keys into the ignition and turned it over. The car came to life with a low roar. Putting the car into drive, Logan pointed it towards the motel he'd been staying at.

The drive had been short. Ten minutes maybe, he hadn't exactly been watching the time. However, he did know that Dean hadn't so much as stirred the whole time. He pulled the old car in front of room number six at the Sunset Inn. He shut off the car, got out, and walked to the other side of the car all without getting so much as a twitch from Dean. Opening the passenger door, he started to shake Dean, hoping to rouse him enough so the younger man could help with getting himself into the room. It wasn't that Logan wouldn't be able to, but he'd feel much better if Dean would wake up. Also, he wasn't necessarily looking forward to carrying a man that had to be almost a foot taller than him. "C'mon, kid, get up. There's no way in hell I'm luggin' your heavy ass all the way inside so you're gonna have ta work with me."

Dean's head rolled on the seat so he was looking at Logan. For a second, he seriously thought the hunter was going to tell him screw himself. However, slowly, Dean braced his arms under himself and pushed his body towards the edge of the seat. In painfully slow motion, Logan watched as the young man swung his legs out of the car and gripped the top of the door. The protective instinct that seemed to have awoken when he first met Dean screamed at him to help, but he knew that the help wouldn't be wanted or appreciated. So he waited for the hunter to ask for it.

After a few agonizing minutes, Dean was standing, albeit wobbly, next to the old car. Without a word, Dean slung an arm around Logan's shoulders. Logan couldn't help but wince in sympathy when he heard the slight gasps the young hunter couldn't hold back as they shuffled to the motel room. The sad procession had to stop for a minute while Logan searched for his room key, but soon they were inside. Still without any words exchanged, Logan did his best to lower Dean carefully onto the bed. It was at that moment, though, that the exhausted man's body decided to give up on him. He tried to control Dean's fall as much as he could and watched as the hunter's eyes closed almost before his head hit the pillow.

He had gotten Dean back to the motel, but now he was faced with a bigger problem. What did he do now?

Looking at the battered body of Dean Winchester, Logan suddenly felt overwhelmed. Due to his healing abilities, he'd never had to treat a wound, at least not in his memory. He had no idea where to even begin.

A loud whimper of pain from the bed cut through Logan's slightly panicked thoughts. Logan's focus was drawn to the man lying there. Dean's face was scrunched in pain as his head tossed back and forth slightly. _Pull yourself, Logan. As shitty as it is, you're all the kid has got._ With that in mind, Logan got to work.

Approaching the bed, Logan made a metal checklist of what needed to be done. _First, assess the damage._ Well that one was pretty easy. Everything he could see was damaged. Dean's face was swollen almost beyond recognition. His knuckles were bruised, broken, and bleeding from landing a few punches before being knocked off his feet. However, Logan knew the most damage laid where he couldn't see. On Dean's torso. Knowing that removing the hunter's shirt was inevitable, Logan sat down on the bed and considered the best way to go about it.

The shirt was almost certainly a lost cause. It would have to be cut off. "Hope it's not one of your favorites, kid," Logan muttered. He figured Dean wouldn't be too upset over the shirt, the jacket, though, was a different story. The jacket was leather and looked to have more than a few years on it. However, it was well maintained and obviously looked after. Dean probably wouldn't be so forgiving over the destruction of the jacket.

With that thought, Logan started to maneuver Dean so he was resting against the headboard of the bed. It was no easy task. The fact that Dean was a larger man than Logan wasn't much of a deterrent. Carrying the man wouldn't have been fun, but shuffling him on the bed wasn't hard. It was, however, made more difficult by the fact that Dean was completely out. The hunter's long limbs were a hell of a hindrance and Logan was swearing by the time he'd wrestled Dean up against the headboard and out of the jacket. "You better appreciate this, kid." Next, cutting the shirt off, and one of Logan's claws made quick work of that. Repositioning the now shirtless Dean, Logan reiterated that this moment had better not be the one Dean chose to remember. Letting out a quick huff of air at his own humor, Logan focused on the injured hunter's torso.

Logan had seen a lot in his wanderings. Between the cage fights and just plain human brutality, Logan was sure there wasn't much that could faze him anymore. However, seeing Dean's torso was a shock. The bruising was spectacular. It was dark and expansive, wrapping around his ribs and curling towards his back, hinting at more damage there. But the bruising wasn't the only thing that littered the man's torso. Scars carved a map on Dean's body, telling of a life where living wasn't guaranteed and death had probably stood close too many times. From the way Dean had looked at the bar, and in the woods at their first encounter, Logan had figured that hunting wasn't in any way a safe gig. He also hadn't thought that it'd be so damn death-defying either. There was nothing he could do about old wounds though, so he refocused on the bruising.

Recalling briefly having seen a man he'd fought against being fixed up once, he did his best to imitate that. He pushed two fingers gently at the worst of the bruising around Dean's ribs, slightly alarmed at the clicking noise some of them made. However, he was relieved to hear the younger man start to groan.

"Dean?" Logan leaned in a bit closer and watched as Dean's eyelids fluttered. "Hey. Kid. C'mon, you've slept enough." He patted Dean's face in an attempt to rouse the hunter faster.

Slowly, Dean's eyes opened, but almost immediately began to squint against the pain and the light. Something close to a whimper slipped from Dean's tightly closed mouth, and Logan thought the kid was going to pass out again.

"Hey, hey." Logan moved farther into Dean's line of sight, hoping to get the hunter to focus on something in the real world. "Wake up, bub. 'Cause I'm way outta my league with this nursing shit."

Dean's head rolled slowly as if trying to identify the sound. "Wha'?"

Logan gripped the younger man's chin, forcing Dean to look at him. "Dean. Ya gotta focus. Take your head outta the damn clouds and listen. Where ya hurting?"

The small room was silent as Dean appeared to think about his answer. Finally, the hunter's eyes somewhat settled on Logan as he spoke. "Hurts."

At that, Logan had to hold back a frustrated sigh. He knew the hunter was banged up badly, but he had hoped if he was able to wake him, Dean would be of some help as he obviously had more experience with treating injuries. That didn't seem to be likely, though, so Logan went to plan B.

"Alright, kid, I gotta look at your back. Can ya lean forward?" Logan asked, allowing a small bit of pleading to slip into his tone. Now that the hunter was awake, awkward moments were going to be even more awkward.

Without a word, Dean started to move off the headboard. As he was leaning, he put pressure on his injured ribs and battered torso and a muffled cry of pain cut through the air. Logan winced in sympathy but moved to be able to see the damage on Dean's back.

If he had thought that Dean's front was a mess, it was nothing compared to his back. In general it was a wreck, but what was most concerning was the dark black bruise across Dean's lower back. "Ah hell," Logan muttered under his breath. Almost immediately, Dean started to shift.

"Wha'? Wha' is it?" Dean's panting increased as he desperately tried to see what had caused Logan to swear. Feeling guilty that he had been the cause of the hunter's most recent panic, Logan tightened his grip on Dean.

"Are ya tryin' ta kill yourself?" he hissed. "Knock it off. It's just a few bruises." _It's not exactly a lie._ Logan felt the panic from earlier starting to creep back as he wondered if Dean's injuries were something he could help and whether or not the hunter should be taken to a hospital. _No. Think. What else do you remember from the fight?_ He thought for a minute. _Ice. For bruises._

"Dean," he shook the injured man gently so the hunter was once again focused on him. "I gotta go look for some ice. Don't go anywhere ya idiot." Dean only grunted in acknowledgement. Logan straightened up from his hunched position and moved to the door. He gave one last look at the hunter before he left in the pursuit of ice.

It took Logan ten minutes to locate the ice machine and a bag, fill it, and make it back to Dean. When he'd gotten back, the hunter was once again out cold and slumped uncomfortably against the headboard. He knew if he left Dean like that for too long it would only make the hunter sorer. However, he also had to ice the front of the hunter's torso, so he figured he could start there before reawakening the hunter to move him forward again.

As carefully as he could, he laid the icepack on some of the worst bruising on Dean's front. With a gasp, Dean came back to consciousness.

"Shit, man," Dean gasped out. "Wha' th' hell?"

"Quit your whinin', kid," Logan grumbled as he repositioned his grip on the icepack. "It's just some ice."

Dean shivered slightly. "Well it's freakin' cold."

"Remind me to tell ya how ice works later," Logan muttered. The room was silent for the next few minutes except from the occasional squeak from the bed as Dean shifted. Finally, Logan broke the silence. "Listen, kid. The worst bruising is on your back so you're gonna hafta lean forward again." He felt bad for asking, knowing that the action of leaning forward had caused the younger man so much pain before. But it was a necessary evil. The bruises on Dean's back needed to be tended to.

With a deep breath, Dean leaned forward again. This time, he managed it without crying out, but even the hunter's stubbornness couldn't prevent a pained look from crossing his face. Logan went to settle the icepack on Dean's bruised back, but before he could, Dean spoke up.

"Wait." The hunter started to struggle towards the edge of the bed, his left arm immediately going to protect his ribs. Before he'd made too much progress, though, Logan re-clamped his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"What the hell are ya doing, bub?" Logan demanded. The hunter was in no condition to go anywhere, and yet, only minutes after he'd regained full consciousness, he was trying to get up.

Dean shrugged off Logan's hand, or at least tried to, and groaned as the motion jostled his sore body. It didn't deter him from answering flippantly. "Gotta go to the bathroom," he glanced at Logan with a smirk, "and unless you wanna come with me – " he let his sentence trail off. Logan immediately released Dean's shoulder, put both hands up, and backed away. Sure, he'd help fix Dean up but he definitely hadn't signed up for bedpan duty.

Smirk still on his face, Dean struggled to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a click, but, to Logan's surprise, the lock didn't slide into place. So even though Dean was being a stubborn ass, he was smart enough to know that he might need help. _Good move, kid._

A few minutes later, the toilet flushed and the door opened again. Dean made his way back to the bed and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. Logan knew that the hunter would be more comfortable lying down, but he didn't push the issue and simply rolled his eyes at Dean's stubbornness. He picked up his icepack and moved to stand next to Dean. The younger man saw his advance and shook his head.

"Don't even think about touching me with that again." Logan went to protest that he was only trying to help, but Dean cut him off. "'M fine. Nothing too wrong. Just wrap up my ribs and let me go back to sleep."

Part of him wanted to simply yield to Dean's more extensive knowledge of injuries and listen to the hunter. However, the protective part of him that seemed to rise when he was with Dean demanded for him to ask how Dean could be so sure everything would be okay. "How do ya know that?"

Dean looked down and smirked at his lap, then looked up again. "Everything was clean in the throne."

That annoying protective part of him was quickly quashed down by his deep desire to never hear about anything like that ever again. He nodded and looked for something to wrap Dean's ribs with. His sparse room didn't offer much, though.

"There's a med-kit in the trunk of my car," Dean mumbled. Logan nodded and felt in his pocket for the keys that he was still carrying. He was almost out the door when Dean spoke again. "And if you so much as smudged my baby, I'll kill you." At that remark, coming from the man that was so beaten that he almost needed help to get to the bathroom, Logan couldn't help but snort. Then, he walked out and retrieved the large first-aid kit from the classic car's trunk.

When he got back to the room, Dean was hunched over, a position that couldn't be comfortable on his battered torso. His head hung in his hands and he didn't seem to have heard Logan come in. In order not to startle the hurting hunter by getting too close, Logan closed the door behind him firmly. Dean straightened up and immediately curled back over his ribs with a groan. Logan walked purposefully to Dean's side and set the med-kit down next to the hunter. He opened it and found himself overwhelmed by the sheer amount of supplies he found, a lot of which he didn't even know how to use. Starting to rifle through the kit, he hoped to find something he recognized that could help Dean.

"Elastic bandage is under the suture kit," came Dean's voice. Logan found it easily and pulled it out, then turned to Dean. Something that almost felt like nervousness settled in his stomach. He had a fairly good idea about what he was supposed to do, but he also didn't want to screw up and hurt the hunter even more than he already was.

"Uh, Logan," Dean's voice sounded more strained. "You gonna do this?" Logan watched as Dean's eyes narrowed as the younger man looked at him. "You _have_ done this before, right?" The silence in the room stretched uncomfortably. Suddenly, it was punctuated by a raspy wheeze that was probably supposed to be a laugh but sounded too painful to possibly be that. He looked at Dean in shock. Nothing about their current situation was funny.

"Dude. You fight for a living and don't know how to wrap ribs? You must be damn good!" Dean continued laughing in that wheezy way until the laugh turned to a raspy cough that shook the young hunter's body. After a minute or so, the fit passed, and Dean looked to Logan again, a smile still coloring his now red face. "That's freaking insane."

Logan scowled. "It was never a skill I needed."

"Don't worry, man, it's not hard," Dean replied, his face losing some of its mirth. "I'll walk you through it."

And Dean did. Logan successfully bound the hunter's ribs. Afterwards, Dean's mouth tugged at the corners and told Logan he knew the fighter could do it. Even though it had only taken a few minutes to wrap the ribs, Dean looked several shades paler and his eyes were drooping. Carefully, Logan helped the hunter lie down on the bed again. Seconds after, the hunter was passed out once more. Logan sat down on one of the chairs around the small table in the area that was probably supposed to be a kitchen. That night (well, technically morning now) he, a self-proclaimed loner with an attitude to back it up, had helped patch someone up and was now allowing them to sleep in his bed. Someone he could almost consider a friend. He smiled slightly. And it felt good.

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The two men spent the next two days in the motel room. Dean spent a lot of time resting and icing his various injuries, allowing his body time to recover. Logan also spent time in the motel room, however, he got more restless. Therefore, he went on several runs and was in charge of retrieving food. He also tried watching daytime television, something that Dean had assured him that he'd hate, which he did.

Over the course of those two days, Logan found himself enjoying Dean's company, something incredibly strange for him. Mostly, he couldn't stand being around people for more than he absolutely had to, it's why he often camped in the woods (though not nearly as often since the wendigo incident). But, as he had started to notice at their first encounter, there was something different about Dean. Even when he was injured and prone in bed, the hunter was quick-witted and in a seemingly good mood. Dean had an irrepressible personality that continued to baffle Logan, but he didn't try to understand the hunter. For the first time in as long as Logan could remember, he was enjoying himself more with someone than he did while alone, and Dean seemed to reciprocate the camaraderie. Maybe that's why Logan was so baffled by what happened on the third day.

Logan had only been gone for fifteen minutes. He'd gone to the small restaurant just a few blocks down to get lunch, just like he had for the past two days. When he walked back into the room, he immediately noticed that Dean was no longer reclining on the bed where he'd been when Logan left him. However, the bathroom door was closed and the light was on, so he thought nothing of it. He set the food down on the table and pulled out his own sandwich. Digging in, he waited for Dean to come out so they could resume their conversation about cars verses motorcycles that they'd been having before he left to get lunch. After three minutes he started to get concerned. Walking over to the bathroom, he knocked, hoping to hear something.

"Dean? Hey, hustle the hell up in there! The food's getting cold!" He waited. Nothing. Something occurred to him, and he ran across the room, ripped open the door, and glanced around the parking lot. The Impala wasn't parked in its usual spot at the end. In fact, it wasn't parked in any spot. He stormed back in the room, this time noticing the absence of Dean's bag that Logan had gone to get from Dean's room on the second day. When he got to the bathroom this time, he didn't bother to knock. The door whipped open. Empty. No sign of Dean. Even his toothbrush was gone. There was, however, a small scrap of paper sitting next to the sink. Logan picked it up and read what it had to say.

 _Sorry, but I kinda suck at goodbyes. Got word of a hunt and had to take it. Wish I coulda stayed but, hey, duty calls, right? Seeing how things go, I'll probably see you again sometime. That is, unless I get beat to hell by some angry hillbillies. Again. Watch yourself out there. World's a crazy place. Dean._

Logan crumpled the note in his hand, clenching it tightly in his fist. He knew that at least a part of that note had to be a lie. Really, what were the odds of Dean getting a call exactly when he left and then not be able to stay for a few more minutes to say goodbye? For that, he wanted to be pissed. As soon as he had found someone that didn't irritate the hell out of him, someone that he could maybe travel around with, that someone left without a word. However, another part of Logan also knew what Dean had done was smart. Both men were loners, both involved in things that were dangerous. Already, as a result of something Logan had done, Dean had been on the receiving end of a bad beating and been laid up in bed for two days. It was smarter, in this lifestyle, to not get attached.

 _Forget him,_ the angry part of Logan stated. _If he can up and leave so easily, so can you._ And Logan decided that's exactly what he'd do. It wasn't like he had a reason to stick around anymore. Besides, it was easier to travel alone.

But, as he started gathering his meager belongings, he couldn't help but feel like he'd lost something important. Something that was vital to him. And, along with that feeling, there was one of slight panic, not unlike what he'd felt when he'd been faced with patching Dean up. The feeling that he couldn't protect the young hunter. Dreading what could happen when he wasn't there to watch out for him. _That's ridiculous. You've only ever seen him twice. Besides, he grew up with hunting and knows a hell of a lot more about it than you do. He'll be fine. And, it's not like you'll never see him again. The kid was right, it's crazy how often two nomads' paths align._

With that reassuring thought in his head, he walked from the room, determined to head back north towards Canada. And maybe, just maybe, he'd meet up with a young hunter that had managed to worm his way past his defenses.

In his haste to leave, Logan had failed to notice the piece of paper lying next to the bed where it had blown in result of Logan's quick movements. It was smaller than the one from the bathroom and on it was a number and this message:

 _Call if you run into any fuglies. Or want to get a beer and talk about how much hockey sucks._

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(Dean's POV)

He'd only been on the road for half an hour when he started to regret his decision for two reasons. One, his body really still did hurt like hell and was already protesting quite painfully. And two, he felt bad about ditching Logan, especially when all the guy had done was save him from an even worse beating and patch him up. Also, he knew from first-hand experience how difficult it was to be abandoned by someone you thought you could count on. But after those two days, well more like one and a half, he'd started to feel something that worried him. Comfortability.

After that first day in a half, he'd already become comfortable with the easy routine him and Logan had settled into. He'd started to rely on someone besides himself and his family. When he noticed that, he'd panicked. It had been ingrained into him as a small child that he could depend on no one that wasn't his own family, that everyone else was simply using him for their own means. So, when Logan had gone to get supper on the second day, he'd called Bobby, asking for a hunt that was preferably someplace far away from where he was. And Bobby had delivered. Something was eating people in Idaho. Dean had packed then and simply waited for Logan to leave again. He took his chance when the older man went to fetch lunch that day.

He knew the note was a crappy way to leave, but he also knew he couldn't wait around for Logan to come back in order to say goodbye. There was a distinct possibility that Dean would lose his resolve and stay for a few more days, or, even worse, ask Logan to go with him. Therefore, the note would have to suffice. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't left a way to contact him. The number he'd left on the bed was to the cellphone that only about six people had knowledge of. Part of him hoped Logan would take him up on the offer for beers sometime, but, with the way he'd left, he wouldn't hold his breath.

 _But,_ his inner voice cut in, _it would be nice to have someone to blow off some steam with, now that Sam's gone that is. Someone to talk to._

Before that train of thought got too far, though, another voice cut in. A voice that sounded like his father. _Get a hold of yourself, Dean. Hunters don't have friends that aren't hunters. And what's the number one rule. We do what we do and we shut up about it. Now screw your head on straight and start thinking about your hunt._

 _Right,_ he shook himself. _Something is eating people. Could be zombies. That'd be cool. Or a pagan god. Ugh, less cool. Or –_

He let his thoughts trail off. There'd be plenty of time for research when he got there. So, he reached down, grabbed his AC/DC cassette and popped it in, cranking the volume. Then, he dug his cellphone out of his pocket, the one with the number he'd given Logan, and set it on the seat next to him. It was more accessible that way and easier to notice if it was ringing. Just in case.

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 **AN: Thanks for reading! I'd like to apologize for any horribly wrong medical information. I am no professional, so there are probably some huge mistakes. Also, I'd like to say that Dean and Logan will NOT be having any kind of romantic relationship. And, for how it ended, I agonized over it for days but then figured that both Logan and Dean would have some serious issues at this point, with Sam leaving and Logan not remembering anything. So I didn't think the ending could be something as simple as saying goodbye and thanks. I'm still not sure how I feel about how it ended, but hopefully you still liked it. Sorry for the long note! Please review and let me know what you thought! (In case anyone was wondering, the height I used for Logan was from the comic books' description of Wolverine, not Hugh Jackman. Otherwise, Logan would actually be an inch taller than Dean.)**


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